


Bloom

by literallymelchior



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: M/M, This Fic is a Wild Ride, its so sappy and fluffy i’m really sorry, plz forgive me, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15093716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallymelchior/pseuds/literallymelchior
Summary: Just know that I am there when you are angry. Imagine that I am holding your hand, and soothing the anger in your heart.





	Bloom

_ Herr Robel, _

_ Ernst, it was so lovely to see you in the vineyard last night. I truly felt that we were connected in some way, you and I. There are some days where I just can’t wait to see you, to talk to you, to feel your lips against mine. It is the most wonderful feeling. _

_ I love that you are taller, that I reach up and let my arms hang softly about your neck, resting on your shoulders. In that closeness, we are still in our hearts and the chaos of the world is as a bird settled in her nest. You are like the sun, and I revolve around our love.  _

_ I’m so sorry that this, our love, has been hidden like this. Whenever I see you at school or in the street, my first instinct is to run to you. To hold you. But I cannot.  _

_ Your passion, it drives me. I yearn to hold you again, to kiss you ever so passionately. But I must wait.  _

_ Until we meet again, _

_ Hanschen Rilow _

—

Ernst had many secrets.

His family were protective of Ernst; the sins of this world were no match for the gentle hold of his family. His father hollered verses of repentance in the streets to anyone who would listen, and his mother would always ransack Ernst’s room, looking for something that would give away his teenage rebellion.

Ernst couldn’t bear to know what would happen if his parents saw those letters, those acts of love and of secrets. He had spilled all his pain, all his doubt into those letters. He had doubted the church, his family. There was so much for him to hide, and so little for him to say.  

He had to stay in the background, just that little altar boy with scars and secrets to hide.

—

_ Herr Rilow, _

_ Hanschen, I long to see you again. Those nights in the vineyard, where we would talk until the sun rose across the sky, and I could see your eyes reflecting the colors of the sunrise, pink and purple, blue and white. You are a cacophony of all the wonderful things that God might have created. In my eyes, I see you as a well. A well of color, of sound, of music. _

_ Whenever I look at the night sky from my window, I am reminded of you. You are the sun, and the moon. you are every particle of stardust that makes this universe explode, further and further each day. I am in awe of what you see, of how you act. Your idea of romance is the dim lights of the stars in the sky, and the sweet smell of the vineyard.  _

_ It is such a wonderful feeling to be with you. _

_ Yours, always and forever, _

_ Ernst Robel _

—

“Ernst, hey! ERNST!”

Ernst sighed frustratingly and turned to face Melchior, his face etched in a permanent frown. 

“You shouldn’t be drunk at one in the afternoon.” Ernst scowled. “What if one of the deacons catches you?”

“Ehh, who cares? It’s the summertime! It’s the time for re—rest and relaxation.” Melchior’s face emptied into a huge yawn, and he laughed, seeing the look on Ernst’s face.

“No, well, I’ve actually been extremely productive, if you must know—“

“All that shit, whatever. Do you want to go to the vineyard? Maybe we could—“

“What do you—I didn’t want—No. I’m fine. I’ll—I’ll see you later, okay?” 

Ernst turned around and walked away, his face betraying his emotions of fear. No one could spoil those memories of the vineyard—especially not a drunk hormonal boy—and the love that came with it. 

—

_ Herr Robel, _

_ Ernst, I completely understand that type of frustration. There’s something so trivial about a certain place where all your best memories are stored, where those professions of love and the spillings of secrets have been laid out there on the ground, spiraled all over the dirt.  _

_ But listen. Through all through that frustration and that anger that has settled in your heart, don’t you hear the birds chirping? Don’t you hear the comforting silence of the trees swaying in the breeze? When something like what Melchior has told you frustrates you, think of the good things in the vineyard. Think of the sweet taste of the grapes and the slow but steady creeping of the vines. Because through all of that confusion, there is so much beauty. _

_ Just know that I am there when you are angry. Imagine that I am holding your hand, and soothing the anger in your heart. _

_ Until we meet again, _

_ Hanschen Rilow _

—

Ernst just wanted to go to bed. He was exhausted from taking care of his neighbors insufferable kids, to the point where the baby had kicked him in the face and left him with a wicked nosebleed, blood splattering his shirt.

But he was taking a brisk walk through the neighborhood, two seconds away from jumping into a sprint. 

His parents were no longer speaking to each other, and his frustration had begun to bubble over. He had simply left the house for a couple of hours, just to get away from the crushing silence in the dining room, their cold stares penetrating Ernst’s carefully constructed facade of thought.

Ernst had simply meant to go back to the vineyard and to write a letter to Hanschen and simply pour out his frustration and pack it into the cold, hard earth, just like Hanschen had told him to. 

It was better to read an old letter now, to feel the creases and lines from the ink, to feel the grooves of the paper against his hands. Ernst reached into his pocket to grab a letter when he noticed something.

There was nothing in there.

Ernst frantically dug his hands into his other pockets, his mind racing and his heart beating frantically.

_ Where could they have gone? _

Ernst turned back around and looked around, his feet slipping and sliding in the dirt. It’s not like they could have disappeared, or fallen. He  _ had  _ them. His breath was coming out faster and faster and he could barely see. He gripped his jacket, trying to remember the last time he had them.

He was about to walk out the door of his house, and he was bending down to get his keys, but they…they had fallen. And Ernst never noticed, because he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

He turned back around at the direction of his house and ran, ran like his life depended on it.

—

_ Herr Rilow, _

_ Hanschen, I was so scared that my parents might have discovered our letters last night. Why was I being so careless, and just letting them float around as if they were nothing but scrap? I can’t stop thinking of the worst, that we will be discovered, that we will have to run just to escape our families, and the demons that come with them. _

_ I’m afraid that my focus on you is falling apart, that I may not be able to go on living like this, with my heart reaching out to you so earnestly. Our secret is too precious to be treated like a faraway thing, like memories in the background. So Hanschen, we need to run.  _

_ I don’t know when, or how, but we’re running out of time. I love you, and I care for you. But I can’t live like this, with one part of me in a fairytale with you, and another part in limbo with my family, where I don’t even register what’s going on. So please, come and help me.  _

_ You were meant for me, for my twin melody. _

_ Yours, forever and always, _

_ Ernst Robel _

**—**

“Ernst, could—could you come in here for a second?” His mother was calling him, a strange and lilted tone to her voice. 

Ernst walked into his room and stopped cold when he saw what his mother was clutching. 

She had the letters.

“I—I found these and—I read them. Ernst, what’s going on with you? You’re in love with—with a—“ His mother could not get the word _ boy _ out; her face had fallen apart and tears were slipping down her face, her hands shaking softly.

“I’m—I don’t want—I don’t know what to say, Momma. But—I need to—I need to leave.” Ernst could no longer speak. He turned around and walked out the door, leaving his mother to her own devices, still clutching those acts of love in her hands.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Last letter in the oneshot loosely based on “Holiday” by Yvette Young.


End file.
